


Dear (For Want of a Better Idea) Diary

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cats, Epistolary, Felines, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, HP Fluff Fest 2020, Kneazle Rescue, Kneazles, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, oblivious boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26056042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Draco likes his life; there’s not muchnotto like. He’s got himself a family of rescued kneazles and nosy Weasleys plus two fun jobs to keep him busy, which is more than he ever expected, post-Voldemort.  But he’ll have a bash at keeping a journal, just as his boss George suggested. Who knows? It might even help him sort out what’s up with Potter, right?
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97
Collections: HP Fluff Fest 2020





	1. Dear Diary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



“Dear Diary.” 

Ugh, how tedious and twee. I shan’t be writing _that_ again. 

“DD”? Um, not really crystal. What am I even referring to, right? 

“Dear Journal.” Or should it really be “Dear Angelina”? 

Oh, why _not_. _She’ll_ never be reading it anyway; it shan’t hurt to address it to someone in particular I actually know and also I feel an utter idiot addressing it to _me_ or to itself, an inanimate object. _Dear Bloody Book??!!_ Absurd idea, that. Not important, though, any of it. This is nothing more than a bound journal I purchased at Flourish & Blott’s and I can call it what I like. Besides, it’s all _her_ fault, really, I’m even fretting over such silly shite. Angelina’s, I mean. Johnson, that is. 

Alright, none of this makes sense really, not so far. Not even to _me_ , more’s the pity. I shall have to write it all down, the full explanation. Who knows, I might have amnesia one day and then I'll look back at past me and curse myself for bloody assuming. Here goes, then. 

I’m Draco Malfoy and I’m nineteen (just turned; my birthday was a few days ago, the 5th) and George (Weasley, as if there’s any other ‘George’ I would know in my life just now but better to clarify) told me that Angelina (Johnson, his fiance) had told him that keeping a diary/journal/book thing to write things in would ‘help’ him and apparently it has (he does seem cheerier these days, but that may also be due to the previously mentioned Angelina becoming his fiance and the implied shagging) and the upshot of all this was that he then wanted me to try it as well. To ‘help’ me. 

“Malfoy,” he said to me, not too long ago, “you shouldn’t be carrying all that rubbish around in your head all the time. Get some of it out on parchment, like Angie told me to. You’ll feel better.” 

George is my sometimes employer, not that a Malfoy needs an employer, exactly, as we still have pots and pots, but I like my sanity, ta, what’s left of it, and I needed something to do after Potter saved us all so satisfactorily and George needed someone who was a dab hand at spellwork, particularly wandless and transfig, and who could whip up random potions right smart. Plus I also fix things, which is particularly useful at Wheezes, as Angelina has pointed out several times over, for George has a terrible tendency to explode things unexpectedly. 

Have I mentioned I have a great respect for Angelina? She was a Gryffindor Chaser and Captain in her time and she’s pretty brilliant all ‘round. Never gave me any guff about being a Malfoy or a Slytherin; has always been unfailingly kind and polite. Sometimes I wish I’d had a sister just like her. That would've been grand, really. This is nearly as good as though. Besides, she’s as fond of kneazles as is my own mother, which leads me to my other employer, which is my own Mother’s own pet charity, the Unity Kneazle Rescue. 

_I_ also happen to be passing fond of kneazles, especially the kittens, because _kittens_. Which is fortunate as I have one on my lap right now. Her name’s Cassiopeia, as she’s rather the vain queen about her voluminously bounteous tail and adores to lash it across my face whilst I’m doing anything here at the desk at all, particularly important adoption paperwork, but also especially when I’m writing in this 'helpful' journal I’ve now been landed with, so it seems, so right fucking now she’s doing _this_. I’ve a mouth full of kneazle hair, damn it; can’t ever manage to spell it off me quickly enough here at Unity. So, yes, she's randomly flinging about clouds of shed fluff when she’s not just as happily occupied with knocking over my ink bottle, my spare quill or my unfortunate tea cup. 

It’s brilliant Cass is such a little charmer, for she truly is trouble incarnate. She really needs a younger person to adopt her, as she’s such a handful. Not at all like Orestes, who’s very calm and sedate. Or the one the knitting Witch adopted, who was always patient and clever enough to help her sort her yarn skeins out when it was needed. Spent weeks here at Unity, that knitting Witch, till one day Leo came to the conclusion she was an acceptable candidate to provide him a new home. Congrats to me, for staying the course and providing her endless cuppas and biscuits whilst Leo made up his kneazley mind about her worth and adopt-ability. But I’m straying off topic, which is intended to be _my_ life, rather as it’s happening to _me_ , every day. 

Honestly, not much, really. 

So, yes, here I am at the moment, front parlor, doing desk duty as Welcoming Wizard in the Unity Kneazle Rescue building on Diagon, which is a spiffing place designed especially for rescued kneazles, but also fully Elf-staffed and nicely fitted out for me and for the other volunteers Mother has variously persuaded to help man the place. Mother’s amazing at organizing and fitting out all manner of houses properly, and she’s done a bang up job here at Unity. But it’s dead slow at the moment, as it’s June, late afternoon Friday, and there’s not many little Witches and Wizards begging their parents for a pet at the moment, I suppose. Certainly not any momentarily due off to Hogwarts, desperately needing a kneazle familiar.

My Mother has me here two days a week, which works out rather well, as I am at Wheezes for three, so I certainly can’t complain of boredom. Some nights I do sleep better, I believe, now I’ve been keeping busy. George isn’t the easiest person to work for, and Mother’s got thirty-plus kneazles here at any given time, all shapes, sorts and sizes, and they are a tad energetic. That’s my polite way of saying they’re mostly a bit touched in the head, and it shows, rather. Kneazles are creatures that care very much for their chosen people and the ones here at Unity have lost their original ones, for one reason or another. (Not the kittens. Cass is just touched because kittens are barmy buggers anyway.) But they can and do mope about and feel sad, or sometimes not wish for any company. Or conversely they might both crave and reject it, still grieving their previous lives and loved ones. 

I can’t say I don’t understand that feeling. Being lonely. Or maybe it’s simply wanting someone in my own life, now I’ve seen it up close. I suppose that’s rather natural. 

George has Angelina, of course, and his giant family, and then Granger and Potter as mates. I’ve come across Granger (no help for it, since she’s practically a Weasley herself) now and again. She’s been civil and very nearly friendly, especially after I made a point to apologize to her. Ronald, too, naturally. One doesn’t just go off and land a job of work with George Weasley and not be vetted pretty fiercely by his fiance, his mum, his dad, all his brothers (excepting Charlie; I’ve not met him yet, though I’ve heard he’s rather fit), his little sister and also then his youngest brother’s bloody super-swot of a girlfriend. It’s like a course of hurdles, really. Well, it was. It’s better now, thank Merlin. 

Yes, back to topic. Today, it’s dead slow here. I’ve spelled all their cages clean and changed out the water dishes and fountains, fed the nursing mums their special diet (Mother’s managed to find several of the poor things, lost or abandoned) and played for hours with the older kittens and youngest adult kneazles. Brushed out the tresses of every last one of them, the furry buggers. Now I’ve mostly stopped sneezing, spelled all the stray fur away, and Cass has finally fallen asleep, I should likely be thinking much harder about what it is that I’m supposed to be writing to ‘help myself’. Or at least give it flying try, in the old Hogwarts Quidditch spirit. I mean, it’s been a year (rather more than that, really. Time really passes, doesn't it?) since I’ve had to organize my thoughts and write them down on actual parchment. For a purpose, I mean. We weren’t exactly receiving much real instruction from the Carrows, you know? Not many assignments, either, excepting to be nasty to the other students. Ugh, I say again. Right, moving on. Keep writing, Draco. You’ll get there. 

So, I asked George about the particulars, but he just shrugged.

“What do I write?” I said to him. “Is it like writing out inches for portions or astronomy? Like what Snape or McGonagall always wanted of us? Reports?” 

“Well, you know,” he said, and went a bit shifty-eyed, staring blankly off into the corner of the back of the shop, which is where I keep the potions ingredients. There’s nothing interesting there; he just does that sometimes. “Just, er, stuff, Angie says. Words, mate, as they come out of your head, I guess. At least that’s what I’m doing. Was making lists there for a while, but it just made me angry again.” 

“Oh? Really?” I asked. “And _then_ what happened?” 

Because that information wasn’t helping me at all, not really. In knowing what to do, exactly. I’m not the sort of person who just goes off blindly, doing things without reason. So, I think perhaps I may’ve looked nervous or something like that. Strange, right? 

I damn well ought to have, given the way my stomach was churning in anticipation. I really do abhor not knowing what to expect. I suppose more so now than ever before. Anyway, he patted me on the shoulder because of it, my face and what it was doing. Which was also pretty strange, now I consider it, since he’s not exactly what I’d call ‘avuncular’, George. But he was still quite clearly trying to sound reassuring for my sake, which was brill and damned decent of him. Like I mentioned, he’s not a cock, our George. Not like some I’ve met, that’s for certain.

“Yeah, didn’t work out, the lists,” he says to me quite earnestly. “Then I ceased with that bollocks and tried my hand at some poetry. Angie had mentioned that idea, too; said I might prefer it, having a bit of fun with the words. Limericks, you know? It _was_ a bit fun, but it’s hard work, don’t you know, rhyming every time you’re struck by a notion. In metre.” 

George shook his head as he was telling me that bit and his face went funny-shaped, rather like a frown and a grin mixed. We must have made a fine picture, pulling faces at each other over the latest batch of Puking Pastilles.

“Yes, go on,” I said. Hopefully, I suppose, as I was still seeking enlightenment. 

“Just...wasn’t me, really,” George says. “Gave it up after a few weeks. Now I just write whatever’s been happening with me during the day. Or with Angie, or with my mates, my family, the customers. What Ron and Harry are up to lately; all that sort of thing. Like a newspaper does, alright? Only it’s just for me. I’m the only one reading it. Angie says knowing that it’s truly private is really important.”

I nodded agreement. I understood that bit, obviously. Privacy _is_ important. 

But I don’t know so many people, not these days. Not to write about. Blaise and his mother went off to the Continent. Pansy’s been... _something else_. _Somewhere_ else. Not present, definitely. I see Mother, of course, but she’s my mum. I see George, Angelina and a fair amount of the Wheeze’s clientele, and there’s the volunteers here at Unity and the people who come into the Rescue to find a new pet. Luna, of course. But still. It’s not that many, really. Not to talk to, at least. 

“I, ah. Am not very social,” I pointed out to him. Seriously, I think I rather had to mention it, because Weasleys as a family are exceptionally social, and I’m not sure George comprehends any other way of existing. “And, other than Mother, I don’t really have much family, George. I’m afraid I’ll run out of things to write if it’s supposed to be about other people.” 

“Git!” 

George laughs as he calls me this, right? Loudly, and then he’s all over playing the fool, clutching at the back of a chair and staggering ‘round, acting a total buffoon. A Slytherin would’ve just scoffed, plain and simple, but these bloody Gryffindors are different. So dramatic, always. I was just starting to feel rightfully offended when he finally sobered up. Mostly.

“You know _me,_ you great ninny! Don’t you?” he asks, I suppose seriously but yet still chuckling, and it’s actually enough to make me start to laugh right along with him, the infectious bastard. “You know Angie and all my lot. That’s enough to be going on with, isn’t it?” 

He thinks he’s a card, George does. And he mostly is, I’ll give him that.

“Look. Don’t fret over it, Malfoy,” he says and pats my shoulder again. “You’ll sort it out once you do it. Same as I did. Just trust me.” 

“Well…” I nod again. Reluctantly, yes, but still I’m agreeing. “I may as well.” 

“Good-oh. Go off straight after luncheon and buy yourself a journal, then. No take-backs, Malfoy. Flourish & Blott’s, two Galleons. Nice dragon-leather bound ones I saw there. Get yourself one of those; that’ll suit you.”

“Right.” I smile at him, mainly because he’s smiling at me as if I’ve just managed some great accomplishment and he’s terribly proud of me. “Of course. I’ll do that.” 

I do, in fact, trust George. He’s barmy and loud and sometimes he’s really sad and sullen, but he’s also clever as anything and noticing and he adores Angelina and she him. And he’s never given me shite about the war, or Voldemort, or Potter or--

Oh, Merlin, that’s actually the bloody door pull. Fuck, a client! Mother will be elated to hear, no doubt. Laters, Diary _Me_. Off out now.


	2. Dear Fucking Diary Book Journal Log

Dear Fucking Diary Book Journal Log, 

Right, so. Speak of the devil himself. That was _Potter_.

Strolling into Unity, cool as you please, and then stopping dead in his tracks as if I’d hexed him with Rigidius and bloody shouting out my surname. 

“Malfoy!” he says. 

Well, it was more a strangled yelp. He’s blinking furiously all the while behind his stupid spectacles, which was probably due to the reflected glare off the street and the difference in light levels between out and in, I’m assuming, and not because he's actually all that shocked to see me in a kneazle rescue house. 

“...Malfoy?” he adds another to that first one, when I nod and gesture, because yes, obviously. Here I am. “You--you’re--why are _you_ here?” 

Okay, perhaps he _is_ that shocked, after all?

He walks closer to me where I’m still seated, feeling pretty well jaw-dropped and at a loss as to what to reply to a barmy question such as that one. This was a good thing because Cass was thinking about leaping onto my head just at the moment, likely because bloody Potter startled her wide awake with his wanton bleating. All the other kneazles in the immediate vicinity meanwhile came bolting into the front parlor _en masse_. It was a river of flowing fur down there. I had to tuck my feet up. 

“Oh, my,” Potter remarks, finally ripping his huge green eyeballs off me and staring wide-eyed down at the sea of swarming kneazles rising to his kneecaps and above. He automatically stuck his hands out for them to sniff, hunching over a bit so they could reach him. 

“That’s--there’s so many, Malfoy. Merlin! Bloody hell, it’s--wow! Oi, Malfoy?” 

He looks back up to me and brushes his hand through his hair (no improvement in that department, not in the months and months since I’d last caught a glimpse of him in Diagon, by the by) and blinks at me slowly from behind these new specs he’s got, (lo! They are not the same old many Reparo’d ones he had before; will wonders never cease, as Mistress Prizzle likes to ask me all too often. I firmly believe that she speaks only in idioms) and regards me a little like he’s never seen me before in his whole life. Or something like that. Whatever--it was strange. (Mistress Prizzle is one of our very oldest volunteers, a real antique, and thus allowed to speak however she cares to. I note this here specifically in case I one day have amnesia or am hit with a curse. She’s nice. Smells of iced tea buns.) 

“Yes?” 

“You.” He stops and swallows. I can see his throat moving. Hard not to, as he’s not wearing a proper shirt. Just a t-shirt, very faded. “Really are here.”

“Er…yes?” I nod. 

Cass decides that my shoulder’s alright for perching instead of my actual head, which is all to the good, really. Kneazles have claws like the very dickens, you know? 

I’m frowning uncertainly at Potter, just as he’s frowning uncertainly at me. In part because of Cassiopeia wandering about my neck and shoulders and batting at my fringe but mostly because of it being Potter in the parlor as opposed to any other random kneazle-fancier off the street. Potter, who’s now looking a little shame-faced for overreacting to my existence and is stubbing his trainer on the flooring like a mad thing. 

“Sorry,” he tells the runner. And the kneazles, which are gradually receding 'round the fringes, thank Merlin. “I guess I was expecting your mum. Or Luna, maybe.” 

“Oh?” 

I stare at him, considering that. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. Months, like I mentioned, and more a passing glimpse, not in person, not to speak with. 

He looks pretty well, considering. A little hollow-eyed, perhaps, and still too thin, but more lean than emaciated and nothing like last year in May. I’ve heard a few bits-and-pieces in passing from the Weasleys (they gossip, or at least chat, all the time, incessantly; I don’t mind it so much anymore. You learn a lot, listening to the Weasleys, really you do) but I’ve not seen Potter except at a far distance. Christmas hols, I believe it was. Out shopping the stalls. 

“Right. May I help you?” I ask levelly. Not unfriendly, not fawning, just very casual. Calm, even. I mentally congratulate myself on this. It’s not so bloody fucking easy, seeing somebody you know the way _I_ know Potter. “Have you come to adopt a rescue, Potter?” 

“Um.” 

Potter nods vaguely, and goes back to avidly peering all around him. The still-present kneazles have begun to leisurely settle themselves about us, and every one of them is (and has been) silently staring at Potter with abundant curiosity. I did mention I was fond of them? I am, and it’s because they are so intelligent. Very deep and knowing ones, kneazles are, or so my Mother always says. Mistress Prizzle too. I wholeheartedly agree. They’re assessing Potter, sorting out whether he’s worthy of their interest, I suppose. 

I could’ve told them he was, of course. He sent my wand back without me asking for it. And George has mentioned him enquiring after my health and Mother’s now and again, seeming genuinely concerned about us. He didn’t have to do that, not at all. Luna’s told me, months ago now, that he’s been going about, visiting the families who lost people in the war, and helping them as best as he can. He’s not entered into the Aurors corps, though, which was the huge rumour right after the war ended. There was a great to-do over that. Ronald has, but Potter hasn’t. 

I was secretly glad to learn of it, when I saw it in the papers. That he’d not chosen Auroring. It’s fucking dangerous, being an Auror. I rather wager he’s had enough of that to last him a lifetime; it would be bloody foolish to seek yet more. It wouldn’t feel exactly fair, either, him having to do it every day for a job of work. It’s none of my business, I know, but the idea just never sat quite right with me. Ronald seems to enjoy it but then he’s been pulled into the investigation end of the department, according to George. Like I mentioned, I was seriously chuffed when I heard Potter definitely wasn’t even considering it, and that straight from George’s lips to my ear. For Potter’s sake I was chuffed, naturally. No other reason. 

Right, cracking on, because there’s more and I am promised to write it all out, damn those ‘helpful’ Weasleys (and ‘nearly’ Weasleys).

“...Yes?” The quiet had gone a bit long. “So, may I assist you? Potter.” 

Potter looks back up at me, very carefully stepping around the kneazles that have already decided they do approve him and are thus doing their very best to demonstrate their affection, tripping him up by twining about his ankles. The rest scatter, high-tailing off to their haunts, which are many. It’s a very large house, Unity.

Then he’s back to staring at the floor, his eyes darting this way and that. They’re still very green, by the way. Incandescent, almost. 

“Oh, er, pardon.” 

He’s addressing the kneazles, not me. Obviously. I roll my eyes again but he doesn’t catch that, fortunately. 

“Oh! Excuse me; yes; oooh, you’re just a lovely one, aren’t you? So soft, such a pretty colour to you. And you!” 

He’s making slow progress, muttering, stooping down to hand out pets along the way. Yet finally he manages. 

“I need help, I think,” he says to me, planting his hands down on my desk as if he’s claiming some sort of stake there. Terribly seriously he says this, as if I might consider refusing. “I’ve never had a kneazle of my own. Nor any pet, really, except my owl--”

“Hedwig,” I say, rather jumping in the midst of this disjointed explanation. “Yes. Your snowy owl. She was beautiful. Very elegant.” 

“Very,” Potter replies, smiling sadly. “I miss her. Every day. But.” 

He brightens up, leaning in confidingly. I lean forward in turn, my chest up against the edge of the desk, and I gaze back at him just as gravely, settling my arms atop the blotter. 

I’m an idiot, really. I realize it that very instant. And I act! 

I’ve been so completely engaged by the fact that Potter’s inside the Unity Kneazle Rescue office I’ve totally forgotten my bloody diary is laying on the desk right before me, in full view, for anyone to peep at. Potter’s eyes, especially. Sharp, they are. Noticing. 

“What?” I ask him distractedly, glancing down at the desk when a random page rustles, which action causes Potter to also look at my desk--and my bloody fucking diary. “Shite! Fuck! Reducio!”

I scoop it up and quickly fumble it into my trousers pocket, locking eyes with Potter unswervingly so he won’t notice the dreadful thing. At least not any more than he likely already has. 

“Sorry!” I say quickly, rising to my feet like a shot. “That was just--just a bit of paperwork, a ledger, nothing important, Potter. But sorry also--about your owl, truly. It’s very difficult, losing a creature. When they’re family, you know? It’s...hard, very hard.” 

I shrug in sympathy, but carefully as Cass is still loosely attached to me, perched atop my shoulder and we both look hopefully over at Potter. Because it does pain the heart, something awful, when a pet dies or is hurt, and you care for that pet and agonize over it. I know it, and I know it well, but I’m not really certain Potter would believe I’d understand that feeling. I’m also worried he’ll say something about my diary and begging all the bloody gods and spirits he won’t. 

He doesn’t say anything but he does blink at me a few times. His lashes are really far too long; makes it fucking difficult to discern what he’s thinking, really. Too, too distracting. 

“Anyway,” I go on eventually in the growing silence between us, “you’ve made the right decision, coming to adopt a kneazle. They are very loving. Very smart, too,” I add, reaching up to give Cass a stroke. “This one, for example. She’s just learned it’s great good fun to clean off a surface with the strength of her tail alone, haha. Mended my tea cup and my inkwell three times already this morning, right? Hahaha! She’s just a kitten yet, of course; quite playful. Tell me, what age in particular were you looking for, Potter? Any certain colour or pattern in mind yet? Habits? Just that I want to ensure you and your new kneazle are the best of all possible fits.”

I’m outright babbling. Or I was, by then. I can hear myself do it, so I stop, finally. Potter’s staring at me. But he’s begun to grin, and his face changes in all the best ways when he does that. I used to take note of it, every now and again, back at Hogwarts. Before Sixth Year, of course. Always wondered what he found so amusing. 

“I’m sure I have,” he replies finally and his voice is warm. “Come to the right place, and the right Wizard, too.” 

I don’t know how to describe it other than ‘warm’ but that’s how it sounds. Friendly, amused, but not in a mocking way. Like his expanding smile has infused the words dropping from those lips.

It’s...really nice. I steady myself discreetly, hand on the back of my chair. I need to. The world’s markedly different for me than it was just a few minutes ago. 

“George says you give the best advice for matching up kneazles with their new people. I’m not worried, Malfoy.” 

“Good! That’s, er, really good.” I force out a chuckle, because it’s awkward still, but I desperately want it to be less so as soon as possible. “I won’t steer you wrong, I promise, Potter.” 

He shrugs and all I can look at is the way his shoulders move under his faded ancient shirt and the way the skin around his eyes and his lips crinkles up just a tad, as if he’s a whole entire being made of smile, all aimed straight at me. 

“As I said, not worried.” 

“Alright.” 

Flustered, I glance ‘round at the gathered kneazles, and there’s not quite as many as before. This doesn’t surprise me much. They are very quick on the uptake, really, and they have their own opinions as to who they might want to live with. I respect that. 

“Let’s see who is still here with us, shall we? Would you like to be formally introduced, Potter?” 

“I would,” Potter nods eagerly, also glancing about. But then he pins me with a much sharper stare. Piercing, it is, and I startle a little. “But only if you call me ‘Harry’, Malfoy, and that likely means I’ll need to call you ‘Draco’. I wouldn’t expect any pet I plan to take home to think of me as ‘Potter’. Nor should you, Draco. Stands to reason, right? Best to begin as you mean to go on, Molly Weasley says. We should be...comfortable.”

“Er?” I gape. Normally I never gawp or drop my jaw so inelegantly, but this invitation deserves that response. “Fine? If you’re sure? Er, ‘Harry’.” 

“Very.” He sounds it, too. I smile, mainly because I can’t not. “Quite.”

He smiles back at me, and it’s more than merely _warm_ , it’s bloody fucking _hot_.

“Right. Shall we? Who’s this one, over here?” 

“Oh!” 

Scrambling, I gather my thoughts into some sort of coherence and follow his gaze and pointing fingertip over to see one of our several tabbies, a lovely little lady named Bermuda. 

“Oh, sorry, Ha-Harry. She’s not available for adoption, that one. Bermuda has a person already; she just comes here to stay and keep the others company on the days when Luna’s busy with the _Quibbler_. I’m so sorry. Would you like to meet a different one? There’s plenty, inside and out.” 

“Oh, definitely,” he agrees. “But.” He whisks his wand out and casts Tempus and, by Merlin, it’s nearly a half hour gone by since he entered. “But not today, I think. I’ll have to come back another time. I’m almost late for another appointment now. Is that alright, Draco?” 

“Yes!” I think I might have strained my neck, whipping it up and down. “Absobloodylutely. Uh, when? When is good?” 

“When are _you_ here next?” he asks, and he seems somehow to be a lot closer to me than he was, and I know this because Cass, that daring little blighter, is reaching her paw out to bat at his spectacles and he’s grinning his glorious arse off at her like a besotted fool. “Because I’ll come then, Draco.” 

“We-Wednesday!”

I stutter. I never fucking stutter, but today! Today I have learnt how to do it, apparently.

“Around ten o’clock, usually.” I clear my throat, looking around at my furry companions. “Well, actually I’m on premises a lot earlier than that, what with cleaning and feeding and grooming, all that, but the office is officially open at ten. Is that convenient for you, Harry?” I look at Cass sideways, as she’s trying it on again. “Oi, you little scoundrel, stop that! Don’t break Po..um. Harry’s spectacles. He won’t like you very much for it, Cassie darling.” 

“It’s perfect.” He extends a forefinger for the kitten to sniff. “Ten o’clock, Wednesday.” She does, very delicately, and then gives him a dainty little lick before drawing back to resettle herself on my shoulder. “And she’s perfectly darling, nothing at all like Cruikshanks. You said her name’s ‘Cass’?” 

“Yes. ‘Cassiopeia’, actually. After the constellation, naturally.” 

“Naturally,” Harry grins, but again, not in a mocking way. “I’d expect no less than a grand name like that for this one. That’s rather an impressive tail she’s got wrapped ‘round your neck, Draco.” 

“Keeps me warm, like a woolen muffler,” I snicker. Nicely, of course. “Pity it’s June, though. Can’t fully appreciate it this way.” 

“No,” Harry chuckles too, and turns to the door. “Right, sorry, but I must go. I’ll see you Wednesday morning, then. Ten, promptly. Cheers, Draco!” 

“Cheers!” I call after him weakly, but he’s off out already. 

I get you out again, Journal, and here I am. With a good strong cuppa and Cass and her sisters Grus, Lyra and Lynx all gathered on my desk along with their mum, Mensa, watching over me. 

That was strange, Diary. But a bit wonderful. He’s...Harry _is_. You know, it’s brilliant, writing ‘Harry’. Not ‘Potter’. 

I’m just staring, I think. Off into space. My quill’s not moving, not much at least. Time to call it a day, likely. Wheeze’s tomorrow, bright and early, and then, after that. Merlin, after that it’ll be Wednesday. Merlin. **_Merlin_**. 


	3. Dear .....

“Good morning, Draco!” 

Yes, alright. I suppose I need mentally apologize to Angelina. I don’t think I can manage to call him ‘Harry’, not in my head. 

“Good morning, Harry. You’re prompt.” I open the door wide to admit Potter right on the spot of ten. Unity is sparkling and mostly all the kneazles are now dozing in the sunny spots after a strenuous start to the day. 

“Well, yes,” Harry smiles and hands me a carry away bev container from the little shop that opened just after the war. “Georgio said to tell you that Esme is both _bellisima_ and a _bella anima_ , and also he thought you might care for this sort today, as it’s fine out.” 

“Thank you,” I reply, carefully prying the lid off to look. 

Yes, there’s a signature swirl in the foam and it indicates both espresso as only Georgio is able to magically produce and a hint of cardamom, which is always exceptionally pleasing. I sigh with pleasure at it and treat myself to one tiny sip. It’s delicious. 

“Um. Won’t you come through?” 

I step away from the door and pivot to lead Potter to the back parlor, a much cozier room we’ve arranged for our adopters in which to be introduced to our shyer kneazles. 

“This way,” I say, careful not to spill the coffee as I recap it for later. A quick stasis charm and I’m able to set it aside on the way without Potter seeming to really notice I’m not drinking it just yet. Curious kneazles and new visitors and hot bev, I have found, don’t really mix as a rule. Cass takes the opportunity to finally depart me and hightail it off to the kitchens, presumably for elevensies. “Have a seat on the settee, next to Octans. Don’t be shy; she’s very friendly to visitors.” 

Octans is, in fact, one of our most social creatures. She’s eleven kilos of silvery-grey fluff over muscle and she’s incredibly nosy. There’s also Orestes, busily scurrying off to the prime window seat, where the exceptional sunbath is to be had. He’s a grand old man of a kneazle, a sort of Merlin-like figure who rules gently over us all with great kindness. Except during claw-clipping time, when he’s a hellcat, straight out of the Pit. 

“Octans, meet P-Harry,” I say, moving over to the armchair I usually sit in during these sessions. “Harry, this amazing old lady kneazle is Octans, and she came to us after her very elderly owner finally passed on. Do go ahead and give her a good stroking; she adores it, really.”

“Oh, but she’s lovely, too,” Potter coos, getting right to petting her, and obviously delighting in the loud rumble of pleasure that resulted. “I was thinking a kitten, like your Cass, but now I’m torn. It might be better all round to have an older kneazle. Kreacher’s not much for pets underfoot; he barely tolerates me.” 

He looks up at me, green eyes wide and looking delectable in that annoyingly simple outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, hair all ruffled up by the morning’s breeze, wand holster leather flexing on his one arm as he moves to pet Octans, and really, I decide right then and there, it’s completely impossible for me to think of him as ‘Harry’. 

Why? Stupid old book, I suppose I need to write this down in order for this mythical ‘help’ to happen. Right, okay, if I must. 

I can’t call him _Harry_ because if he’s _Harry_ and not ‘Potter’ it just makes him seem all that more possible and every instinct is shrieking at me that such an eventuality will never happen in a thousand, million years. Very simple. 

I mean, I am, in practise, addressing him as ‘Harry’, because I’m not an impolite cretin and this is ultimately a transaction going on between us (he wants a kneazle and I happen to be the one providing said kneazle) and thus he’s a client and that’s acceptable. Professionally, I mean. 

“What do you think, Draco?” Potter asks me, drawing back my scattered wits. “I’m in an old house, too, and much as I enjoyed meeting Cass the other day, it would be so easy to lose her somewhere, she’s so very small yet. A mature kneazle would probably be less of a problem to keep track of, right?” 

“Well.” I blink, drawing in a deep breath. “Harry. That’s not necessarily the case. Kneazles are not idiots by any means, you realize, and any one of them worth their salt will cheerfully make it their mission in life to inform you personally when food or water or whatever else is required, trust me.” I shrug. “Often, and loudly.” I shrug again, indicating Octans, who is slightly irked that the petting has paused and has decided to emit a peremptory yowl. “They also talk, as you see.” 

“Ah!” Harry bounces on his cushion and hastily resumes making much of Octans. “So, noisy? Kneazles are?” 

“When they choose to be, yes,” I grin, “but certainly not all the time.” I glance around the room, trying not to smirk too broadly. “For instance, there’s at least ten other kneazles here, all ‘round us. Have you not noticed?” 

“What?”

Startled, Potter searches round him, craning his neck and twisting his torso in order to get a good view of all the nooks, crannies, bookshelves, other furniture and so on. 

“One..two, three and four--oh, more kittens!--and there’s five, six. Wait--wait, oh yes. Seven, and there’s eight--he’s a great big lad, that one!--and nine and ten! Behind your chair, Draco, right? Is that all of them here--did I find them? What are they all called?” 

I’m laughing out loud by this point in the game; literally cannot help myself. He’s so bloody pleased with himself and it’s a bit fun, playing ‘find the kneazle’. I should know--I do it both at the manor and also here, so it’s become second nature, I think. But still very amusing. 

Harry joins in, obviously twigging I’m not laughing at him but more at the situation, and we both chuckle for a moment longer. Octans meanwhile decides she’s had enough of all this raucous noise on our part and descends regally from the settee, stalking off. She’s almost immediately replaced by the twins, who swarm lithely up the sides of the settee and straight over Harry’s lap, meowing wildly. They could be Muggle Siamese, they’re so strident. 

“Oh, my!” he exclaims, inundated with a cloud of sleek fur and a pile of happy wriggles and squirms. “Who are these two? Merlin, but they’re friendly. I don’t even have to pet them; they do it themselves, see?” 

He’s holding both hands out, palms down, and the twins are rubbing whiskers and ears against them, purring up a storm in the process. 

“Oh, that’s Palawan--he’s the ever so slightly darker pelted one--and the other’s called Paxos,” I tell him, lounging back in my seat to watch. “She’s the larger one; born first, we think. There were only the two in this litter, likely.” 

I rather long for my undrunk gift coffee all the sudden, perhaps because it all seems to be going along smoothly, this ‘getting to know you’ visit, but it feels like it would be awkward to simply summon it at this late date. 

“They’re twins, and about three years of age, we think. They were found at the side of their poor deceased mother in an abandoned cottage a month or so after--after _you_. Uh...um.” 

I stop abruptly, stumbling into silence, for how am I to mention that last confrontation between Potter and Voldemort casually? I find I can’t. Literally can not. 

“Right,” Harry says quickly, face gone grim. “That. So, rescued last June? They’ve been here a whole year then and no one has taken them home? That’s so sad, Draco.” He shakes his head, hands very busily scratching behind two sets of perked-up ears. “To be stuck in a cage for so long.” 

“Oh, Merlin, no!” 

I get up and stalk around the room, spontaneously deciding that, well, to Hades with it, I need my coffee, and Summon it abruptly, awkward or no. 

“There's no cages here, Potter.” I come to a halt, snag my cup without even glancing at it, and pin Potter with a narrow-eyed look. “That’s a horrid idea; for shame!” 

“But--but?” Potter looks up at me, clearly confused. “How do you keep them, the rescues?” 

“They live here, obviously,” I say, gesturing with my unoccupied hand at the length, breadth and height of the capacious house Mother purchased and converted into the shelter. “Anywhere they like. When various of them aren’t home at the Manor with us or being fostered with one of our many volunteers. Salazar, Potter,” I shudder eloquently, doing my best to express the discomfort even the suggestion of caging an innocent creature for a year or more makes me feel. “Caging a kneazle? Honestly, my skin’s crawling now at the very suggestion. Ugh!” 

“It’s _Harry_ , actually,” Potter says firmly, nodding. “Not ‘Potter’. And I’m sorry. I didn’t realize, Draco. In Muggle cat shelters, they--”

“Yes, I know,” I interrupt him, “but these are kneazles and they’re different. Trust me, Harry, Mother also rescues and rehomes Muggle moggies, too, and we have any number of those running about freely at our other shelter in the City. But that’s unusual, I realize. Most Muggle shelters are not well enough funded or have sufficient volunteers to keep the poor things in truly pleasant conditions whilst they wait to be adopted. Mother, however, cannot abide the idea of any of ours--common cat and kneazle alike, mind--being ill-housed.” 

Potter grins, settling back and relaxing as the twins flop themselves contentedly over his thighs. 

“That’s alright then,” he remarks, and then scritches Paxos under the chin, looking down at her fondly. “I’m happy to hear you’re being kept in style, m’lady.” 

“Indeed,” I agree, finishing off my very nice coffee with a gulp in the hopes it will soothe my jangled nerves. “Well? Are you interested in going in the back garden? The new mums are out there, sunning with the littlest ones. They’re frankly adorable, I fear. You may find yourself leaving with a whole family of kneazles if you’re not careful, Harry.” 

“What are we even waiting for?” He’s up on his feet in a flash, but still taking good care not to tip the twins off the settee. “Come on!”

We do, indeed, go out to the garden. In fact, I end up giving Potter the full tour of the facilities and along the way I tease him into playing ‘find the kneazle’ with me, so we spend a lot of the wandering about and laughing at each other and the antics of the furry inhabitants, who are all very inventive when it comes to hiding places. 

I introduce him to a few of the other volunteers, coming in to spend time and care for our charges. Kneazles mope without stimulation and that’s not something my Mother will allow. 

Potter goes off after about an hour, but empty-handed. He can’t make up his mind, it seems, and I suppose that’s understandable. He’s not had any pet other than Hedwig, his poor murdered owl, not of his own, at least, and I’ve been sensing some internal hesitation as to his confidence in keeping one. Owls aren’t kneazles, that’s for certain. 

But, Diary, I really don’t believe he should be fretting over his own capability to keep a kneazle well-cared for and happy. I don’t believe that will ever be a failing for Potter, the not-caring. 

I cannot, however, ever truly trust myself to think of him as _Harry_ ; I really, really cannot afford to, not even a merest particle. And why should I? He’ll choose his kneazle eventually, or one will choose him (I’ve some hopes for Cass there) and then he’ll be gone again, right? 

Yes. But for now, he’s promised to stop by this weekend. Perhaps I’ll ask Luna if she’ll be willing to switch out days with me. I’m not one for excessively pointless self-torture. At least I hope I’m not, these days. 


	4. Dear FLog

Dear **FL** og: 

( **F** ucking **L** og ) (Me, being clever) (Oh, why even **bother** , right?) (I don’t feel particularly ‘clever’ right now.)

“Draco,” Angelina says sternly, having come to stand by me as I tinker with an official ‘Harry Potter Pop-and-Bob’ toy George has decided Wheezes should have available for the Tinys come winter hols. 

(‘Tinys’ are the quite small children, naturally, and Wheezes is, of course, the only shop allowed to sell anything with Potter’s name on it--not even the broom suppliers were able to persuade him, apparently--and only because George has eagerly agreed to donate a large percentage of the proceeds to charity. But not Mother’s charity. It’s already very well funded.)

“Draco!” 

“What? Sorry!” 

I glance up at that, vaguely aware she’s been speaking, and it takes a moment to fully focus on the fashionable Witch addressing me. Angelina is always terribly fashionable as she’s a Very Important Person at the Wizarding Wireless--she chooses the programmes and negotiates contracts with the Quidditch clubs for airing all the matches on the WW, I believe--and she works just down the Alley in the WWHQ building. She often pops in to take luncheon with George. Or with me, if George is busy with the shop. Which means George then comes and quizzes me as to all she’s said and done and so forth, because he’s utterly besotted. I continue to tell him to hire some more shop help, at least for the till-minding, but he refuses to listen. Bloody Weasleys are stubborn as well as nosy. This may be a ginger thing. I don’t know, really. 

“Pardon? What did you say, Angelina?” 

“I said, you don’t look quite right.” She huffs impatiently, folding her arms firmly across her posh robes and looking cross. “Look a bit off, you do.” 

“Oh. M’fine,” I mumble, looking quickly back down at the various parts I’ve strewn across my bench. The tiny painted Potter head stares accusingly up at me. “Just aces.” 

“You’re not,” she states unequivocally, plumping her bum down on the chair adjacent to my table. “Don’t fib. Luna said you called off Saturday at Unity last minute. But you don’t actually seem ailing, so what’s wrong?” 

Have I mentioned I respect Angelina very highly? I do. She’s a Witch who takes no shite, and it’s evident to me from a covert scan of her set expression I’m not going to be able to fast-talk my way out of this one easily. 

Which doesn’t stop me from trying, alright? 

“Oh, that?” I shrug, meeting her gaze levelly. I force a smile; wave a Potter head about offhandedly. “It was nothing, really.”

“Nothing?” Her eyebrows arch skeptically. “Really.” 

“Really. Just, uh. Something came up at home suddenly and I couldn’t leave. Luna was kind enough to agree to fill in for me at Unity, that’s all.” I smile earnestly. “I’m not ill, I swear it. I don’t know what ever gave you that idea.”

“Harry did,” Angelina replies succinctly. “Sunday dinner, he remarked that he was very disappointed not to see you there and that he’d heard from Luna you weren’t yourself, which he seems to have interpreted to mean you were ailing.” 

“Oops!” I smile again, a very elastic sort of lip-stretching, which clearly impresses her not at all. “Well, I don't know how that could’ve happened. As you can see, I’m perfectly well.” 

“You’re a perfect liar, more like,” she snorts, leaning forward to give one of my wrists a fond slap. “Naughty. So? Tell me, why did you feel you had to avoid Harry, Draco? Is it still some business hanging over from the war?” 

“No!” I stare at her, horrified. “Egads, Angie! Merlin and Circe, not at all-- _nothing_ like that.” 

“Didn’t think so,” she grins, relaxing back into her seat. “War’s over. It wouldn’t be like you, holding a grudge against Harry. Not that you’ve any reason to.” 

“Fuck’s sake, absolutely not!” I shake my head so hard my stupid hair gets in my eyes. “I’m not a bloody child!” 

“A torch, however,” she goes on archly, bobbing her chin firmly as if already decided, “is quite another matter indeed. Have you fancied him long, then?” She deftly pops her elbow on my table and her chin on her first, leaning in and lowering her voice to a confiding level. “Because I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Draco. So...weeks? Months? Years? Tell me, do.” 

“Gah!” 

This wild, hare-brained accusation renders me wordless. I throw up my hands (accidentally sending the Potter head flying) and make a sound meant to convey rejection, shock, scorn and dismay, all at once. 

“Uh-huh,” Angelina grins, wrinkling her nose at me. “That bad, is it? Rendered speechless; check. Would you care for a few pointers, then? I do have some expertise in dealing with idiot men, you know. Sounds as if you could use a little friendly advice and assistance, actually.” 

“Bloody.” 

I slump, a whole-body sort of slouch, and fall slowly forward, closing my eyes and laying my cheek flat on my work table's scuffed surface. Thankfully I’d already managed to scatter the tiny screws and springs for the Pop-and-Bob to the winds or I’d have likely gouged a nice hole in my skin, doing it. 

“Fuck.” 

“Taking that as a ‘yes’, Draco,” she says gaily, reaching over to pat my head. “Buck up, man. Help is here. We’ll have you fixed up in no time, I promise.” 

That has me lifting my head up right quick. 

“How?” I demand, and consider briefly about sneering at her, snidely. Another realization strikes me as a hammer blow, wiping that silly idea completely out of what's remaining of my mind. “Wait!” 

“What now?” she demands, scowling. “Draco?” 

Except it’s Angie I'd be sneering at and I do really like Angie and don’t want to be making nasty faces at her. Besides. She’s bloody spot- _on_. Hence, the hammer blow feeling. I wave my arms about again, grimacing. 

“No! Never mind, alright? It’s not possible, Angelina. He’s just wanting to adopt a kneazle, that’s all. Don’t read more into it, please.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Draco,” Angelina sniggers. But politely. “I’d wager he fancies you too. He’s just not very good at expressing it, perhaps. Two of a kind, you are. Peas, pod. Pot, kettle. You know.“

“Excuse me?” I sniff, pokering up. Perhaps too haughtily, perhaps not. It’s dusty in the back room of Wheezes. “I don't know what you mean, I’m sure. Believe me, I am perfectly capable of expressing my feelings if I wish. Ahem. _Should_ I wish.”

She snorts. But in a very kind manner. 

“Draco, avoiding the object of your affections is not going to advance your chances, is it? You positively begged for Luna to cover your hours there last Saturday because you didn’t dare see Harry--no, no, shut it, Draco; don’t forget I know you,” she snaps back rapid-fire when I open my mouth. “Shh, I’m still speaking. As for him, lurking suspiciously about the kneazle rescue building for a full fortnight before even daring to cross the portal to speak to his old schoolmate is not exactly the act of a confident young Wizard, now is it?” 

She huffs with exasperation, humping her shoulders, eyes twinkling with mirth, and sits back in her seat with an air of decided triumph. 

“Well, I--”

“No, no; can’t fool me,” she cuts in, waving me off like a champion. “You’re idiots, the both of you. A condition, lucky for you, I do know quite a lot about.” She glances back over her shoulder, in the shop area, eyes on George’s unmistakably Weasley head. “For a brash chap, that one there was certainly reticent when it came expressing his feelings for me. If it hadn’t been for the encouragement of my mates and his own mother, I’m sure I would have given it up as a dead loss.” 

“Hah!” I burst out. “Poppycock, Angelina! That man absolutely worships the ground you walk on!” 

“Uh-huh,” she nods wisely. “Him saying so, though? Trust me, it was very touch-and-go there for a while. That man is bloody inarticulate. As are you, apparently.” 

I have to roll my eyes at her; it’s the height of absurdity, really. I mean to say, it’s actually rather rude, accusing someone of being inarticulate when they simply choose to be more...private. 

I don’t actually bother to say any of this aloud because clearly I am in process of being overruled all across the bloody board and my poor privacy (at least in the matter of whom I may or may not fancy) has been breached, brutally. 

“Right, so,” she says briskly, disregarding my scowling and sitting forward again in a business-like fashion. She draws out a small, closely written piece of parchment from one of her sleeves. Flattening it out in front of me on my table, she says, “I’ve gone ahead and made you up a list of relationship pointers, Draco. Mind you read them before you see Harry next.” 

“Next?” I echo, gulping. “Er, when ‘next’ would that be, then?” 

“Not saying,” Angelina smirks. “Or you’ll do another bunk and disappoint the boy. Can’t have that, Draco--can’t have that.” 

“Can’t we?” I say, hopefully. “I hardly think he’ll be ‘disappointed’, Angie. Potter just wants to acquire a kneazle. That’s really all there is to this.” 

“Poo!” Angie scoffs. “You keep telling yourself that if it will make it easier, Draco. Nevertheless, you shall read this list and then put it to good use, my fair friend, or I’ll know the reason why not!” 

“But!” 

Angelina’s already on her feet, which means I have to crane my neck to look up at her as I'm rising politely, and she's slinging her cape elegantly about her shoulders in preparation for leaving. Not one to waste a moment, our Angelina.

“No ‘buts’, Draco,” she informs me firmly. “Just do it. I must dash, though. Late for a meeting with the Cannon’s people. You know how they are; all whinging and pouty when they think they’ve been slighted, poor chaps. Comes from always and forever being the underdog, I dare say. Cheers, then!” 

“...Cheers?”

I call out after her, a few seconds too late to be heard, I imagine, for she’s already slammed the interconnecting door between the workroom and the shop proper behind her. 

“Shitesticks,” I hiss, catching sight again of the doubtless irritatingly thorough list she’s left me and gritting my teeth till my jaw fair aches. “And buggerall. Now I’m in for it. Bloody fuck.” 

Scooping it up, I shove it in my robes pocket for later reading. At home, in private. I’m not risking George popping in and spying it and then grilling me for every detail. Which he’ll do anyway, of course. These Weasleys--Merlin, but they are the nosiest lot of Witches and Wizards I’ve ever met!


	5. Dear (FWoaBI) Diary

Dear (For Want of a Better Idea) Diary, today was a bloody disaster. Maybe?

Thank Merlin I have a pensieve. It’s all a huge blur without. Alright, **no** , it absolutely wasn’t a disaster, far from it! It’s actually _the very best day ever_. However. Not such an easy start to it, though. Like this, it went:

“Good morning, Harry!” 

I say this so bloody cheerily it’s nearly obscene. I’m rewarded with a very scant sideways look and the lift of an eyebrow as the man himself gingerly steps through the door I’m beckoning him through eagerly. 

“Right. Er, hullo?” 

“Hullo! Here to pick out your kneazle, I hope? Step right this way, please!”

I whisk him summarily though the entry and straight to the back sitting room without further adieu. I’ve had a serious chat with the occupants of Unity this morning already and all the kneazles who’ve shown the faintest interest in going home with the famous Harry Potter are present and accounted for. 

“And how was your weekend?” I enquire, still fiercely cheery as fuck-all, installing him in the armchair and me on the settee for a change of pace. I wave my wand in the air, sending up a pre-set signal to the Unity elves. “Pleasant, I hope. Tea?” 

“Ah--”

“Mine was very relaxing,” I soldier on stolidly, showing all my teeth in a brilliant smile as I stow my wand away. “Spent in good health at home, of course. Very quiet and peaceful. So sorry I missed you last Saturday, Harry. Luna mentioned you did stop by. I wasn't ill, you know, just otherwise detained,” I add, a rising note of challenge in my voice which, Merlin help me, I cannot quite contain. “Which _does_ happen.” 

“Um--right, but--you said--promised, rather--er, didn’t you?”

“Ah, here it is!” I cry out right over his ineffectual mumblings, jolly as one can be at the expected sight of a floating tea tray, and proceed to play Mother. “Two lumps, isn’t it?” I ask, adding them anyway. “And a dollop of cream? Right, here you are, Harry. Biscuit? Think fast, now! Eyes forward!” 

“Ah, but how do you even--” 

Clearly bewildered, he strings together some words, but not quite a real question, staring in turn at me, his perfectly prepared tea and also catching the ginger treacle biscuit I’d tossed without even a blink as it sails through the air at him.

“Tea? I mean; ah. Mine. My tea, in--in particular.” 

“More biscuits?” I offer, all smiles. “No? Alright then, drink up!” 

“You? Know _my tea_?” His gazes flickers back and forth, a frown steadily growing upon his annoyingly fit face. “Um. How do _you_ know how _I_ take my t--” 

“Pardon? I'm sorry, Harry.” 

Scowling, I feign utter non-comprehension, shaking my head at him dolefully. Of course I know _his_ tea; known the finicky little git for nearly a decade now, haven’t I? Does he think I’m that singularly unobservant?

"Draco." My, but he is persistent, the prat. "But you've not-- _my tea_?"

“Right, right. Your tea, yes. There it is, isn't it? Not certain what you’re going on about, Harry; sorry. But anyway, moving on. No time to faff about over inconsequentialities, is there? Your future kneazle awaits you! See?”

I gesture expansively about us, at the fully inhabited room of feline Harry-fanciers. There are near enough to ten, actually, including my favourite choice for Potter, little Cassiopeia, and then the twins, who are really just slags for attention and excitement, sweet old Orestes and a relatively recent arrival Luna has named Hvar despite me. (I had argued for Auriga to no avail, sadly. Luna’s another one with strong opinions and she’s very fond of those island breezes.) Plus one of the newer mums and her quite small kittens, but I think Helga’s more present for the sunny spot in the corner bow window, as none of that lot are paying us much heed. Orestes and Cass, on the contrary, are very interested in our doings indeed. Octans, too, though she’s quite well disguising herself, being well up on the glass-front bookcase behind the dried floral arrangement Mother displays there. In any event, there’s loads of them, our kneazles. Potter is evidently a popular bloke with the feline crowd. No surprise there, right?

“Here they all are, ready for the choosing,” I elaborate, wanting to make it very clear that this is the fateful moment of bonding. “Just say the word and we’ll have you on your way in a flash, Pot--er, Harry. Complete with your furry friend for life!”

“--life--?” Harry mouths after me, eyes alighting on Cass finally. “Oh, but--”

“Of course! Kneazles are exceptionally long lived, Harry, as are Wizards.” 

I feel very much the way I imagine a used-broom salesman feels, closing in for the kill, as it were, and with the victim before me, struck still and staring wide-eyed and transfixed by the sheer flowing gall and brashness of it all. 

“I’ll even,” I acclaim feverishly, snapping my fingers and Summoning the carton of the deluxe Kneazle Necessities we outfit all new adopters with, gratis, “provide you double of these, Harry, if you will just choose your lucky new roommate today, this instant!” 

Flummoxed, his jaw sags, just a bit, and he gapes at me. 

“Or p’raps take two--they’re small!” I offer madly, on the inhale. 

My smile threatens to crack my face in two. It feels bloody horrible, wearing it; completely unlike me. And I’m speaking far too loudly for such a cozily appointed room and only two blokes and a few felines in it, practically shouting my lungs out. It’s so rude of me, I can’t bear myself. 

I stop, at bloody long last, cutting myself off abruptly. 

There’s a resounding silence. I hear it, ringing in my ears. He can too, apparently, and we both shift about in our respective seats. I stare at my untouched cuppa on the tray, not willing to look at him for fear of what I might see. He looks to the carpet. It’s a nice one, I admit, but not worthy of that sort of intense examination normally. 

I have honestly no idea of what next to say. That is, if I ever dare even open my mouth again in his presence. Angelina’s well-intentioned list of what I should be doing to properly entice a bloke floats before my stunned mind’s eye, mocking me. Harry continues to stare at the floor for another eon. Or so it seems. 

“Right, okay. Ah, erm. Are you...quite alright, Draco?”

He finally speaks. Enunciating every syllable, as he sets his tea aside very deliberately. He’s turned to scrutinizing me as if I’ve sprouted several heads, frowning all the while in a terribly concerned fashion. Genuinely concerned, because he’s bloody Harry Potter. 

I set my jaw and attempt to endure it. The shame, the attraction, the overwhelming feeling I’ve just tossed any chance I ever had with him straight into the bin. 

“Because you seem a little as if you’ve been hexed." He tilts his head at me. "Er--have you been?” 

“No!” 

I may have well as been hexed, though. I’m fucking well flushed and I know it; colour is mounting up my neck in an inexorable tide. Feeling very overheated, suddenly, and what’s worse, feeling exceptionally foolish. Angelina had said--well, she’d written it all out, but same difference--that I should strive to be ‘friendly’ and ‘encouraging’, 'welcoming' and any amount of other rubbishing adjectives of the same general ilk, next time we should meet. Whatever it might take to 'help Harry feel you're chuffed to see him, Draco.’ 

“Are you certain?” 

She’d also practically ordered me not to do a bolt if I felt ‘threatened’, which is patently ridiculous, because why would Harry Potter ever make me, Draco Malfoy, feel ‘threatened’. Or send me running off, even metaphorically, like a crup with all his tails between his hind legs? And it's not as though I'm not 'glad to see him', because I am, truly. The private bits of me are, at least. 

“Yes!” 

Oh, but fuck. I’m very nearly back to shouting again, because he’s all the sudden standing right over me and has the flat of his palm pressed against my forehead, and it’s become impossible to breathe because my chest is so tight and yet also his hand on my head is rather improbably calming.

“I--I’m fine, really I am.” I’m not, I’m fucking scarlet and panting a little. “I swear it,” I lie, and none too convincingly. I mean, _I_ wouldn’t believe me, if I were him. 

“Hmmm.” 

He’s not looking very convinced but he draws his hand away all the same and plops his bum on the settee next to me without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“Alright, if you say so.” 

“I do. I do say so,” I insist, not looking at him and focussing instead on erasing the feel of his hand on my skin from my memory as quickly as I can. “I’m--I’m just eager for you to have your kneazle, Harry.” I blink at Orestes, who blinks very slowly back at me. “I’m sorry if I seem too--too insistent. I simply don’t like to think of you lonely, all by yourself in that great big empty house of yours. You need a companion.” 

“Yes! Yes, I do! You’re spot on there,” Harry sprouts a brilliant grin and points it in my direction, then just as quickly glances around at the patiently waiting kneazles. “And I’m willing, don’t worry about that. It’s just…that I.” 

He trails off, falling morosely silent, looking down at his knees, encased in their torn, scruffy old denims, and then down at his toes, decked in equally elderly trainers. 

“It’s just?” I prompt gently after a long moment. “That you?” 

I’ve gotten my racing pulse under nebulous control and am growing accustomed to the warmth of another body sitting right next to me. It’s not so bad. I manage to meet his eyes when he turns back to me. He’s not looking askance at me, despite my terrible behaviour. I sigh, slumping a bit, and give him a reassuring shoulder bump. As a friend would do, that's all. 

“Harry?” 

“Look, it’s this,” he says suddenly, twisting his torso fully about and grabbing up my hand to clasp it tightly in both of his. “Will you come home with me?” 

“...What?” 

“Will you,” he repeats, green eyes very intense on mine, “come home. With me?” 

“Uh, ah?” I manage not to choke on my own swallow, but barely. I shake my head; I cannot be hearing him properly. “But why?” 

“I need your help, Draco.” 

I know that look he’s giving me; every single kneazle I’ve ever known has perfected it. It’s the wide-eyed gaze of utter helpless appeal, the ‘my hero’ toggle switch the little beasties employ on their people to coax or tease out whatever it is they might desire, be it treats or toys or a good solid stroking.

“I can’t do this alone. I need you to help me. Will you?” 

“Ohhh,” I nod, realizing at least what he’s asking. “I see now. Well…”

I dither. Internally. 

“Please?” 

My, Diary, but his lashes are long behind those lenses. It’s a bloody shame he still disfigures his face with those specs of his, even as sleek as the new version is. Then again, I imagine, it must be a special treat indeed to know what he looks like in private, without them. Sleeping, say. Or in the bath. 

“Draco? Will you please?” 

“ _Yes_.” 

(If I could've looked at my own self utterly and entirely aghast at that split-second in time, DFWoaBID, believe me, I would've. So would've. Merlin. I wanted to disown my own mouth.) 

“Yes!” Harry's acting as if I’ve just handed him a million Galleons and not merely the offer of help spelling clean his new kneazle’s litter cabinet or doling out the proper amounts and types of feed. “Whoo-hoo! I knew you would, Draco! That’s brilliant; thank you so much!” 

“Whoa, wait!” I squeeze his knuckles between my own, because he somehow still has my one hand in his and now also the other one, that wily snitch-stealer, and our fingers are all tangled together. “You still haven’t chosen, Harry. I can’t come home with you unless you're taking your kneazle along today, now can I?” 

“Um, well, about that...”

Harry’s voice changes, and I mean a total sea-change here. Completely, entirely, altogether, dropping to a sexy low register and sending a fucking irrepressible shiver right up my fucking spine. It’s practically a fucking purr issuing from that biteable throat of his and my cock instantly stiffens to full attentiveness. I can barely hear him over the blood rush; it's quite intense. But I can certainly smell him and he smells of the purest distillation of Amortentia.

“Hmm. If I do take two, Draco, will you stay longer? Overnight, maybe?” 

“Ah?” 

_I_ part my lips slightly, licking at them because they're inexplicably feeling chapped, and desperately seeking for something sensible to have come out of my mouth in the way of words resembling a full sentence. 

_He_ fucking well sticks a set of smirking lips on it. Them. His! On. _My_. Mouth. _My_ lips. 

Then sneaks in with his tongue, the sly git. 

Snogs me, Diary. Snogs. Me. 

_Thoroughly_. 

(Not so shabby an end to it, yes? What did I note earlier about that, right? Never trust a book by its cover, Mistress Prizzle always says. Excepting I do, Dear Diary, in the case I do develop sudden amnesia, which I am determined to never, ever do because the bit after the full-on snogging was fucking better _even_ than the snogging, no lie. No lie.)


	6. Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I’m writing this entry at Harry’s. 

Rather like that, the ‘at Harry’s’ bit, at least in reference specifically to me and my geography. Hah!

Actually, I haven’t been home for several days now but Mother was kind enough to Owl you along, Diary, tucked into a trunk between my favourite dressing gown, some freshly laundered pants and several more neatly Shrunken additional Kneazle Necessities cartons. A fortunate act of foresight on the part of my estimable mum as we rather were in dire need of them (the Kneazle Necessities, not my pants), what with Harry’s spontaneous decision to adopt _all_ the bloody kneazles who showed him interest. Plus one especially shy one (named Mathylda, because occasionally one of the other volunteers manages to name a newly rescued kneazle before Luna or I beat them to it), who must have snuck into the expandable carrier and come along to Harry’s house undetected.

No matter. Mathylda’s a lovely calico one, very sweet, so all’s well there, I think. Certainly Harry isn’t fussed over it. Every single one of them is his most favoured favourite, I swear to you. 

Orestes, Octans, Cass, the twins, the mummy Helga and all her kittens are positively full of purrings and twinings and seem to be having the time of their many, many lives exploring the old pile, attic to cellars. And Kreacher, Harry’s house elf, is happily beside himself, what with caring for them. The entire house smells often of roasting fowl and whatnot; all the foodstuffs he’s making up constantly to tempt the appetites of his precious wee fur-babies. Now and again he does recall he needs feed us too and Harry tells me I should be grateful. 

Yes, well. I am grateful, but not so much exactly for the meals Kreacher does deign to provide, which are nice enough. Though I’m writing this quick note now on the breakfast tray, as it happens. Kreacher’s been kind enough to send it up to us today, though it’s really so far past morning we may as well call it the luncheon tray. Perhaps he may actually approve of me, as Harry insists he does. Mother’s connections to the family and all. 

Not that we’ve really been downstairs often, Harry and I. Not much call for it, as it happens. The kneazles, led by wise old Orestes, camp out alternatively either here in Harry’s suite or down the scullery with Kreacher, so we don’t feel quite so guilty about not donning real clothing and making any sort of official appearance elsewhere. Luna’s been kind enough to cover my days at Unity and George Owled me over a note, just yesterday morning, informing me I was already considered to be on a ‘paid holiday’ from Wheezes, as is required by our annual contract. (A clause I really don’t specifically recall requiring at the time but I do hope--as a fecking legacy Slytherin--that paid hols was indeed my idea and not _his_ , that tricksy ginger git.) 

‘Paid holiday’, my artful arse! Grimmauld is _not_ by any means a bloody tropical island in the Caribbean, let me assure you, and too, very truly, I don’t believe I’ve had nearly as much sleep as I usually would, on a normal holiday. But it’s all good. It's bloody _brilliant_. I’m not whinging over it, believe me. There are so many other things one may do in a bed than merely sleeping, you know?

 _I_ know, is what I’m saying here. I mean, I’m writing down now that I do, in fact, know of these things that are far better than sleeping and I have learnt them with Harry. Whom I shall think of as _Harry_ , and no further mental quibbling over that point. (Angelina would be so pleased with me, if only she knew. Not that I shall be telling her explicitly once I’m back from my hols, but she’ll likely know anyway. She’s just like that.)

I’m not bloody writing anything else down, at least not whilst I’m here (hahaha, ‘helping me with caring for all our new kneazles, Draco’, or so Harry insists on calling my extended visit). I’ve a pensieve back at the manor and, if I want, I can save a few of these memories for wanking whenever I like. But I don’t believe I’ll be doing much solitary wanking, or at least not according to Harry. I’ll be far too occupied ‘helping care for all our lovely kneazles, Draco!’

I rather do believe him when he says this sort of thing. Not solely the _kneazle care_ part, but especially the _not wanking alone_ part. The man has fucking ‘I will not tell lies’ written on his fucking skin. Hard not to trust him, and especially when you know him as well as _I_ know him...now. 

But thanks all the same, Journal. I think Angelina was correct. It does ‘help’, writing things down. Writing _lives_ down as you’re living them out, day by day, so there’s a bit of perspective brought to them, a chance to trace out patterns, make connections, all that. Makes you realize things or at least think about them a little more deeply than you normally might if you’re just rushing along head down, as I was, before. Probably a lot of it is tosh, what I’ve written, but some is good and worth keeping. I’m glad of that. It’s certainly helped bring me something both _very good_ and very much _worth keeping_ : Harry. 

Oh, and rather a lot of kneazles it seems I’m now more than just _partly_ responsible for, but I’m already well accustomed to _that_. (Ta, Mother. You’ve always done well by me and I do adore you for it.) 

As I’ve said, not bloody complaining here, not one fucking speck of a jot. (Oops, there goes my bloody inkwell again! Cassiopeia, you little wench, come back here this instant! Not the sheets, please not the sheets, not the buggering sheets--oh, fuck, _the sheets_.) 

**Author's Note:**

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